William
Shakespeare
to
Mrs
Anne
,
Regular
Servant
to
the
Revd
Mr
Precentor
of
York
A
moment's
patience
,
gentle
Mistress
Anne
!
(
But
stint
your
clack
for
sweet
St
Charitie
)
'Tis
Willy
begs
,
once
a
right
proper
man
,
Though
now
a
book
and
interleaved
,
you
see
.
Much
have
I
borne
from
cankered
critic's
spite
,
From
fumbling
baronets
and
poets
small
,
Pert
barristers
and
parsons
nothing
bright
:
But
what
awaits
me
now
is
worst
of
all
.
'Tis
true
,
our
master's
temper
natural
Was
fashioned
fair
in
meek
and
dovelike
guise
;
But
may
not
honey's
self
be
turned
to
gall
By
residence
,
by
marriage
,
and
sore
eyes
?
If
then
he
wreak
on
me
his
wicked
will
,
Steal
to
his
closet
at
the
hour
of
prayer
,
And
(
when
thou
hear'st
the
organ
piping
shrill
)
Grease
his
best
pen
,
and
all
he
scribbles
,
tear
.
Better
to
bottom
tarts
and
cheesecakes
nice
,
Better
the
roast
meat
from
the
fire
to
save
,
Better
be
twisted
into
caps
for
spice
,
Than
thus
be
patched
and
cobbled
in
one's
grave
.
So
York
shall
taste
what
Clouët
never
knew
,
So
from
our
works
sublimer
fumes
shall
rise
:
While
Nancy
earns
the
praise
to
Shakespeare
due
For
glorious
puddings
and
immortal
pies
.